


Flickering

by CreativeWords



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dora is determined, F/M, HBP timeline, Order of the Phoenix (Harry Potter), Pre-Relationship, Remus is a little scared
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 20:57:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3910417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CreativeWords/pseuds/CreativeWords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do you think I can possess the power to change my face to match anyone else’s, down every twitch of an eyebrow, and not know what it looks like when someone is in love?”<br/>It's a long stakeout together and Dora is determined to have the conversation Remus has been avoiding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flickering

_She’s late._

The street lamp four houses down is flickering. It has been doing this for the last two nights, so he really ought not to be staring so. But she is late. The street is quiet. And focusing his attention on the faulty bulb seems more productive than studying the moon.

Three days. He doesn’t have to glance upward to confirm it, but he does. Dumbledore is perhaps overeager to prove his malady is not a deterrent, keeping him on guard duty up to the night before the full moon. Remus wishes he wouldn’t. But when Dumbledore speaks, there are few indeed who think of contradicting. _McGonagall comes to mind. Mad-Eye Moody_. Or perhaps his incorrigible young favorite, if she is feeling particularly bold.

_Which is more often than not._

He chooses to ignore how quickly his mind turned to her. He chooses just as intentionally to return his attention to the bulb. She’ll be here. Probably before he’s ready.

_Of course he’s on time._

She frowns around at the empty street corner. It isn’t that she necessarily expected that he would wait for her. But it seems less than encouraging.

Her hands search for the familiar snags beside her jeans pockets, but she’s worn the new pair, the ones that look a little less like a sixth year purchased them and maybe slightly like something a bona fide adult would wear. _As if that will help._ She’s slightly embarrassed to be dressing up to impress him, but she’s kept the Weird Sisters shirt. Let him despise her if he dares.  

There’s nothing for it. She sets off down the street, hand brushing against the wand pocket sewn into the Muggle clothing. She’s still on Order business, after all. It wouldn’t do to be too distracted.

 

She still hasn’t come.

He’s been afraid of this. Been dreading this night since the debacle on Saturday. He’d been far too flummoxed to do more than splutter vaguely at the girl – _yes, girl, practically an adolescent_ \- in front of him as they parted ways at the bridge four streets north and she chose to unleash a deluge of words about herself, and him, and them, and hopes, and gleams in eyes, and quiet dinners, and grand adventures, and… and all manner of nonsense. She’d ended with, “Think on it. Promise me you’ll think on it. We’ll talk next time.”

_And kissed you._

He’s tried very hard to lay that memory at the door of his own inappropriately hopeful imagination. But there is no denying it. He can still see the suddenly, blazing determination in her face, still feel the insistent tug of her fingers against the shoulders of his coat as she drew him into it. And of course, the sensation of her lips against his.

She’d grinned when she pulled away and searched his face. He’s not sure what expression she saw there, but he’s more than a little worried that whatever it was gave away far too much. She really mustn’t know.

“Sorry I’m late.”

Her breathless whisper in his ear nearly makes him shout, but he bites his lip and turns to find Nymphadora Tonks shaking with silent laughter. Her hair is longer than usual today, long enough to tuck behind her ears, and a softer red that in certain lights could look almost natural. It’s obvious from the way her hands are twitching that these are new jeans, ones she hasn’t worn long enough to discover the best thumbhooks. He shouldn’t find it so endearing, but he does.

“So,” she says, settling into the bushes beside him. “I take it the Fenwicks are enjoying yet another night of sweet dreams while we bore ourselves watching for dark wizards they don’t believe exist.”

“Seem to be.”

“Sometimes I wonder why Dumbledore bothers with cases like these.”

“He has a soft spot for lost causes.”

_Don’t rush it. Don’t spook him._

_If she wants to talk about it, she will._

 

He won’t look at her. It’s possible she ought to accept this as a bad sign, but she chooses not to. For all that he’s a Gryffindor, the man is painfully shy about some things. Several long moments stretch into interminable minutes. They are scheduled to watch the house till dawn. She’ll go crazy long before then if the silence continues.

“Have you spoken to Dumbledore?”

“Not since Monday morning.”

“Mad-Eye says there’s still no word from Hagrid.”

“No. I’d be surprised if there was. Giants are about as likely as vampires to keep post owls about, and Hagrid isn’t exactly a steady correspondent.”

A sidelong glance and half smile. Not exactly a speech declaring his undying love, but she’ll take it. In fact, it’s enough to win a giggle from her.

 

That sound could stand for firewhiskey as far as he is concerned.

 

She wonders if he knows how much his eyes sparkle when he’s looking just past her ear.

 

It’s hard, with that warmth still spreading in his chest, to summon the wherewithal to say what he knows he has to say. But waiting till dawn seems unduly cruel.

“Tonks.”

“Can’t you just imagine it, though? A giant would just crush an owl trying to get a letter on its leg. What do they use? Eagles?”

 

“Well, I don’t –“

 

“And surely they don’t use proper ink and quill, do they? I mean, just think –“  She scrunches her nose In concentration and her right hand elongates and swells to what could reasonably be expected to equal a giant’s hand. Her wand looks twig-like in its grasp.

 

“Most likely not, but, Tonks –“

 

“What do you reckon they use? Just break a branch off a tree? Chisel their mail in stones?”

 

“I sincerely doubt giants have a mail system at all. But that’s not what I was trying to say. We have to talk, Tonks.”

 

 

It ought not to be so easy to shift from anticipation to terror. She focuses on shrinking her hand back to regular size.

 

_Breathe, you moron. Don’t let him know you’re nervous._

 

_If you don’t do this right, she’ll know. Be calm._

He’s tugging on a lock of hair just behind his left ear. He does that when he’s nervous. She’s watched him do it more Order meetings than not. Or when people mention the Ministry.

 

She is aware of what she should conclude from this. She ignores it.

 

“Oh?”

 

“Yes, ah… Now, yes… now about what happened the other night.”

 

_Stop stammering, man._

He takes a deep breath and forces himself to meet her eyes. “It’s not that I’m not flattered, truly. You’re a lovely girl. You’ll make some –“

 

 

“If you say ‘some wizard very happy,’ I will hex you here in front of God, Merlin, the Fenwicks, and any muggles in eyeshot, Remus John Lupin.”

 

She’s mildly horrified to feel tears burning the corners of her eyes. But she keeps eye contact and scowls at him.

 

“I didn’t mean to offend,” he says, tugging at his hair. “But it’s not right, Tonks. You know it as well as I.”

 

“What’s not right?”

 

“You – you trying to – and with the war on, it’s really – and you’ve got such a life ahead of you when all this is over-“

 

She lets him splutter. Not a blink, not a nod, not a word in response. After the first flush of hot pain, her heart is pounding through the fading pangs. He is going to be pig-headed. So be it.

 

 He spreads his hands and looked at her with an expression she might have found pitiable had it not been directed at her. He reaches for the lock behind his ear, but wraps a fist around a hank of hair instead. She stares at him a few seconds more, waiting for the real answer, the one she knows is coming.

 

“I’m a werewolf, for Merlin’s sake.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I can’t – you don’t know what it’s like. I would be a danger to you.”

 

“I’m an Auror, Remus.”

 

He gives the most irritated look his features are capable of producing. After years of Mad-Eye’s glares, she finds it unimpressive.

 

“Don’t be difficult.”  
  
“Don’t be petulant. You’re the one who is supposed to be mature, remember?”

 

 

He’s always known she has fire in her. But the theoretical knowledge is a far cry from seeing that blaze in her eyes. He wishes he’d waited till dawn.

 

“You would be an outcast. Do you realize that?”

 

She tilts her chin at him. “I love you. Do you realize that?”

 

His heart leaps a little despite himself. He can only hope nothing showed on his face.

 

“I - that is, of course –“

 

Her face is suddenly much closer to his. He can smell the faint spearmint scent she always seems to emanate. Her eyes are luminous in the moonlight. He’s always been partial to her natural eye color – a deep brown like chocolate. They usually bring the same amount of comfort to him. At this moment, however, he gives in to the impulse to scoot back slightly.

 

“Do you love me?”

 

She’s calm. Calmer than he is, certainly. This is vaguely incomprehensible. He’d been braced for tears, shouting. Not this simple question.

 

“I –“

 

“You’re an intelligent man, Remus. It’s a simple question. Do you love me?”

 

His treacherous heart leaps each time she asks.

 

“I – I can’t.”

  
She presses her lips together. “I know the answer. You know that, don’t you?”

 

Her eyes squint in concentration, and suddenly, startlingly, he’s looking into his own face. It’s still Tonks’ voice that comes when his mouth opens, though.

 

“Do you think I can possess the power to change my face to match anyone else’s, down every twitch of an eyebrow, and not know what it looks like when someone is in love?”

 

She’s right. His eyes, staring back at him, are positively lovesick. He closes his own to think. How can he convince her? All he can think of is the frisson of inexplicable joy her words sent through his limbs. When he opens them again, the chocolate brown eyes are back, smiling triumphantly into his. Her hair is back to bubblegum pink, too.

 

_Be strong. You know what she’d be dealing with._

 

“What would your parents say?” he asks, weakly.

 

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

 

She is aware that he’d rather she lean back again. She’s not willing to do so. She’s played the strongest card she had at her disposal. He can’t deny her now.

_You know he can, Dora._

 

She ignores this. Remus lets his hand drop from his hair, squaring his shoulders. He looks his actual age when he does that. It makes her smile to see.

 

“I don’t love you.”

 

The smile slides painfully from the corners of her lips.

 

“Remus –“

  
  
“No. I don’t love you. I’m sorry if I misled you in anyway, but my feelings for you are purely friendship. You will –“

 

“But –“

 

He talks over her, plowing through the words. “You will make some young wizard very happy when all this is ended. Someone who is your age, who won’t drag you into poverty, who won’t endanger your life on a monthly basis. I look forward to attending that wedding someday as a guest. You will be grateful then that I said this now.”

 

“Don’t presume to tell me what will or won’t make me happy,” she snaps, feeling the hot flush crawl up her neck and cheeks.

 

By contrast, he has grown exceedingly calm.

 

“I do not and will not love you, Nymphadora Tonks.”

 

Her limbs have somehow propelled her into a standing position. She scrubs at the suspicion of moisture on her cheek and bolts out of the bushes. She can hear his strained whisper calling after her, but she ignores it. He will want that, after all.

 

 

He isn’t surprised she left. He is surprised at the physical ache her absence has created. He tugs on his hair once more, and settles into position. It will be an even longer night than anticipated, it seems. He turns his attention back to the flickering street light.

 

Ten minutes pass. Fifteen. He realizes he is checking his watch every five minutes and decides to sit on it.

 

A few clouds pass in front of the moon. The final window in the fifth house down goes out. The temperature shifts ever so slightly cooler. He digs around in the dirt for his watch. Cleaning the bits off the cover takes a few moments longer. Some grit has settled into the grooves of the winding mechanism.

 

Spearmint. He looks up just in time to see Tonks settle back into dirt by his side. She’s changed into her old jeans, and her hair is in its most daring spikes yet.

 

“I didn’t expect to see you again tonight.”

 

“Didn’t want to let Dumbledore down.”

 

“Ah.” He fidgets more with his watch, fishing for words.

 

She doesn’t look at him, but the faintest of smiles crosses her lips. “He has a soft spot for lost causes.”


End file.
